


and the nights were as dark as my baby

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-30
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-12-26 15:36:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18285209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: Clarke finds a 24hr cafe and the owner is adick(But a terribly, terribly hot one at that.)





	and the nights were as dark as my baby

Clarke only finds the place because work runs late and she ends up missing the last train

She just got off an almost fourteen hour shift-- it was supposed to be twelve, but then a pile up on the freeway caused her to stay back and suture at least twenty wounds shut. She’s tired, and grumpy, and wants so do nothing more than get home and take a shower to wash the stench of antiseptic off her skin, but of course now her plans are shot since there are no more trains running.

Her best bet is to order an uber but she doesn’t feel particularly safe waiting alone, by herself, in a dimly lit station as it nears midnight, so she tugs her coat around her shoulders tighter and starts off in a random direction, hoping to find somewhere that’s open this late.

She keeps a hand on her old, faded protection ruin as she goes, the one she’s had on her wrist since before she could walk as anointed by her mother. She doesn’t know if it still works but it’s a nice comfort to have when she’s walking alone late at night like this.

After five minutes or so she sees it, the bright red neon eye catching sign amidst the washed out oranges of the streetlamps and muted grey of the night, standing where the old bookshop used to be.

_Cafe Nocturne._

It’s an odd name for a shop, even odder for a cafe to still be open at this hour of night, but the sign promises coffee and hot sandwiches and Clarke is suddenly reminded that the last thing she had to eat was a squashed fig newton more than six hours ago. She’s famished.

A bell tinkers as she pushes the door open and she’s immediately greeted by the smell of cinnamon and mocha and a warmth that wraps around her shoulders like a blanket.

The walls are bathed in a soft yellow light, and they’re lined with shelves, previous relics from the old bookstore, and they’re covered with all sorts of books and board games, with mismatched armchairs and equally mismatched tables strategically placed in a way that makes you want to do nothing more than curl up with a steaming cup of tea and pull something down to read, forgetting about the rest of the world for a little while.

There’s also a cat, a fat, fluffy tabby curled up in a ball on one of the high backed chairs and that seals the deal for Clarke. She’s staying.

She doesn’t notice the barista standing behind the counter until he clears his throat and then she wants to kick herself in the face because he’s _hot._

Like _stupid_ hot.

He’s got a mess of dark curls halfway hidden under a grey beanie, and a dark red flannel shirt thrown over a plain tee with the sleeves rolled up. He’s wearing glasses, a pair of clunky black frames, and he has _freckles_ dotted across his nose and cheeks.

Normally she’s not one to swoon over the hipster aesthetic, but somehow he makes it _work_ , the flannel clinging to his broad shoulders _just so_ , the sleeves pushed up to expose his tanned and toned forearms.

Clarke, in her exhausted state doesn’t realise she’s staring at him until he hitches an eyebrow.

“Can I get you something?”

“Um.” She hastily scans the menu but words ceased to have meanings since about three hours ago and she ends up asking, “What do you recommend that tastes good and’ll keep me awake until my uber gets here?”

He stares at her a moment longer and she feels her cheeks flush before he says, “Coffee or tea?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Any allergies or dietary restrictions?”

“I’m kinda lactose intolerant but as long as you don’t serve me like, an entire cup of plain milk, I’ll be fine,” she says, far too tired to care about oversharing.

The hot barista doesn’t seem to mind, the corners of his mouth tipping up slightly in a smirk. “I’ll keep that in mind. Anything else?”

“Do you have anything to eat?” she asks, squinting at the food menu. “I mean, obviously if it’s gonna be a hassle to make or you guys are about to close, you can totally tell me no.”

“It’s a cafe,” he says slowly, “It’s our _job_ to make you food.”

Her cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Right. I’ll have a turkey on rye.”

He nods. “Coming right up. Why don’t you go have a seat and wait?” he says as he hands over her change.

Just the thought of sinking into a chair after standing in her stupid, uncomfortable sneakers all day is enough to make her want to moan out loud.

She decides to sit in a plush velvet armchair by the corner, and pulls down one of the books from the shelf. It’s a worn copy of _Mansfield Park_ , the spine cracked and the pages dogeared and spotted. The cat that was sitting on the chair by the door has come over to investigate, rubbing along her legs, softly purring, and she finds herself reaching down to scritch at its ears. The purring just gets louder.

Clarke is about twenty pages into the book when there’s a thump on the coffee table next to her, causing her to be startled.

“Here you go, princess,” hot barista guy says as he puts down her drink next to sandwich. She chalks up not noticing him approach to her tiredness.

“I have a name you know,” she says wryly as she hastens to sit up. She somehow ended up sinking into the chair, the cat tucking itself under her arm as she read.

“Good for you,” he replies, before leaning down and grabbing the tabby from her side and dropping him unceremoniously to the ground. He goes with a pathetic half meow.

Honestly, she wants to be mad at him for being a dick but the sandwich is good and the coffee is even better. It’s some sort of chocolate-hazelnut mix that she never thought she’d care for but somehow he makes it all work together. She finishes it half of it before she can even realise.

Meanwhile hot barista guy is smirking at her from over by the counter and Clarke tries her best to ignore him, dumb freckles and all.

(Perhaps she might come back another day when she’s less sleep deprived.)

(Only for the coffee though.)

(...and maybe the staff.)

-

“So, do you work all night?” Clarke asks, sitting by the counter this time. About a week has passed since her first visit and she caved and went back today after her gruelling shift in the ER.

Coffee is always the cure to a bad day.

And cats, as the tabby-- she learnt his name was Catlas and it’s _incredible_ \-- takes this opportunity to rub against her legs.

(And so are hot baristas. He’s there again, wiping down the counters. This time he’s wearing a leather jacket over a plain t shirt instead of flannel and Clarke hates herself for staring at him.)

There are couple more people than last time, mostly college students, but she sees the occasional on call police officer or doctor. Word of the twenty four hour cafe has seem to spread.

“Yep.”

“ _Every_ night?”

“Yep.”

“That _cannot_ be healthy,” she declares and he finally looks up at her, a flat expression on his face.

“Who cares if it’s healthy?”

“What do you mean who cares?” she snorts, “Lack of sleep increases stress. It can cause you to become more susceptible to cardiovascular disease, diabetes, hypertension--”

“I think I’ll be fine,” he says wryly and she sputters in disbelief. “You are aware that you also suffer from lack of sleep too, right?”

She is aware thank you very much, but it isn’t her job to practice what she preaches. After all, doctors make the worst patients.

“I don’t do it every night,” she says exasperatedly.

“It kinda feels like you’re in my shop every night,” he shrugs and she narrows her eyes at the slight jab.

“Fuck you.”

“Ask nicely Princess.”

She throws a balled up napkin his way and he manages to dodge it smoothly, flashing her a quick smirk and wink.

-

Clarke only learns his name when she visits the shop during the day.

The cafe is about three blocks from the hospital where she works so when she gets put on the day shift she decides to stop there for lunch.

It’s a lot busier during the day. Almost all the chairs are taken and the blinds are pulled open, making the room seem a whole lot brighter. She never noticed them before, the blinds. At night they seem to blend right into the wall, awash in the golden orange glow of the bulb.

Hot barista guy isn’t at the counter this time which clears a little of her worries. She was beginning to think that he survived on coffee and five hour energy shots. He deserves some downtime.

Or at least she hopes it’s downtime.

….oh god what if he’s a student by day and working at the cafe is the only way to make ends meet?

Or what if he was working three jobs just to stay afloat and he was at another one of those today?

By the time she actually makes it up to the counter, she’s conjured at least seven different theories as to what else he could be doing, each one more harrowing than the last.

So when the new guy at the counter-- tall, dark, a beanie tucked low on his head-- asks for her order, she gives it to him and then casually asks, “So where’s the other guy?”

“What other guy?”

“You know…” she hesitates. It’s probably a bit creepy to go scouting around for his schedule, but she presses on. “The one who’s usually here at night. Freckles.”

“Oh you mean Bellamy,” says beanie guy. He shifts and she finally notices the nametag pinned to his shirt. Miller.

Hot barista guy-- _Bellamy_ \-- doesn’t wear a nametag.

“He only works nights. If you come in during the day you’re gonna get either me or Shaw. Or Murphy but no one wants to fucking deal with that.”

“Cool,” she says, before glancing back at the menu again. “I’ll take one Jane Austen to go please.”

It took her a while at first to realise that all the drinks were named after famous authors. Mostly because hot barista guy kept trying to surprise her. They’ve all been good surprises thus far, all of them tasty and delicious and just ever so slightly out of her comfort zone that she would have never thought to pick it.

(He also likes to refill her mug when she’s not looking. He claims that they offer free refills but Clarke knows that’s bull. She’s the only one who gets special treatment.)

(For some reason the thought warms up her insides more than coffee ever could.)

-

“I’ve received a complaint,” he announces as he leans over to swap her empty mug with a full one. This one is dark blue with gold stars painted on.

Clarke looks up from her notes in mild surprise. She’s surrounded by a small mountain-- laptop, textbooks, a clipboard and two sterilite pencil boxes holding all of her pens and markers and highlighters. It’s a lot.

“Complaint about what?” she asks, “And from who.”

“From me,” he says with pursed lips. “About your overly graphic images.”

Clarke blinks. “Seriously.

He nods.

“What, scared of a little blood and gore?” she teases.

“People are trying to _eat_ at this fine establishment,” he sniffs, “And all of your pictures of open abdomens are scaring them off.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, pointedly looking around. It’s a bit past ten and the only other people besides them are a group of college students working on some kind of project and an old man eating a croissant while reading yesterday’s newspaper. “The crowds are just running from here.”

Bellamy glares at her. “Take it to the back.”

“I’m not moving.”

“Princess.”

“Nope.”

“I’ll give you a free cookie.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Do you think you can bribe me with a _cookie_? How stupid do you think I am?”

“Fine. I’ll give you a free chocolate muffin _and_ the cookie.”

She eyes him for a moment longer before nodding, “Deal.”

He helps her move at least, carrying her boxes of stationery to a table all the way in the back. In retrospect it’s better sitting here than at the counter. There’s an outlet and the table is bigger and when she looks a bit closer at the shelves, she’s surprised and ecstatic to find copies of Grey’s Anatomy and the Oxford Handbook of Clinical Medicine.

Clarke’s fairly certain that these weren’t there before and she smiles, thinking about Bellamy adding them to his collection just for her.

-

She decides to stop slacking off about work in February, promising herself that she’s going to be at the top of her rotation group.

Usually when Clarke studies it’s at the library, surrounded by nothing but the dull buzz of the ventilation system and the click-clack of typing.

Now she finds herself bringing her laptop with her to the coffee shop more often than not.

She learns that Bellamy’s shifts start around six and go all through the night, so the days when she’s not working late at the hospital, she finds herself here at 5pm, gets a coffee and a sandwich, and then starts making notes on Guillain-Barré syndrome or whatever else was mentioned in the clinic today.

By six Bellamy shows up and the now cold dregs of what once was her coffee is replaced by something else.

“What’s this?” she asks, squinting suspiciously at the steaming mug of whatever dark red liquid it is that he just placed in front of her. It’s very fragrant, the mix of spices permeating the air around her.

“A Bram Stoker,” he grins and she’s dazed for a moment.

Bellamy doesn’t smile much-- he smirks or snorts-- but when he does, it always throws her the way his eyes crinkle and a dimple forms in his chin. Not to mention his teeth, two rows of picture perfect pearly whites that she was certain she only ever saw on the walls of orthodontic offices.

“What the _fuck_ is that.”

“Try it,” he says, pushing it closer to her.

Clarke continues to stare at him, but she does pick it up and take the smallest of sips.

Quickly followed by a much larger one.

Bellamy grins again.

“Good, right?” he says, preening a little, and she pulls a face.

“It’s okay I guess,” she sighs. “What’s in it?”

“Roselle. It’s a kind of hibiscus,” he says. “That, and some cloves of course.”

“You gave me flower juice?”

“Flower _tea_ ,” he corrects and she throws a highlighter at him. It doesn’t do much of course, bouncing off his stupid bicep.

“Go harass your other patrons,” she huffs, pointedly flipping the page of her textbook. “Catlas and I are studying.”

“Catlas is not allowed on the chairs,” he says, glaring halfheartedly at the cat in question, who gives a small ‘mrrp’ before stretching and jumping off.

“Rude.”

“Shut up and drink your flower tea.”

She giggles as he walks off in a huff, taking another sip of her tea. It’s been a month since she first started coming here, a month since she met the hot barista guy who she’d eventually come to know as _Bellamy_ , the surly barista who tries to sneak vegetables into her diet and makes sure to walk her to the train station each night even though it’s only a block away.

(Don’t get her wrong though, Bellamy still is definitely hot. Too hot in fact as she catches herself sketching a picture of him on the side of her notes about antibiotics.)

(She rips the page out, cheeks blazing, and crumples it into a ball. Later, when she’s home in the solace of her apartment she’d flatten it out by sticking it in between the pages of a heavy textbook and then finish it on the weekend, taking care that she gets every freckle and curl just right.)

-

Midterms creep up on her in the sense that one week she’s there, chilling, as she makes notes and flashcards before leaving at a semi appropriate time, and then the next week she’s pulling all nighters, surrounded by more coffee cups than binders and more highlighters than coffee cups.

Clarke is more than aware that she looks like some soft of swamp monster during exam time but it still stings when Bellamy tells her one night,

“You look like shit.”

She takes the time to pause from learning the kinds of beta blockers to glare at him.

“I’m gonna give you a bad review on yelp,” she sniffs.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a family of birds nesting in your hair. Honestly, have you even _slept_?” he asks, ignoring her as he clears about six different mugs from around her.

She gets about three hours of sleep a night and hasn’t washed her hair in about five days so she elects to ignore that statement.

“I have exams to study for,” she says, stifling a yawn as she opens another patient file to review.

“You need a nap.”

“I don’t need a nap.”

“Every time you blink your eyes stick together.”

She realises that she’s doing it right now, and snaps them open to glare at him. “I’m _fine_.”

“I have an apartment upstairs,” he shrugs, “It’s got a shower and a bed and I can guarantee that no one will disturb you.”

Clarke stares at him, apparently long enough for him to become fidgety and embarrassed enough that he adds on, “Unless of course going up to some strange man’s flat alone in the middle of the night sounds like a bad idea. Can’t imagine why.”

“No, no, it honestly sounds like a pretty good one,” she admits, blushing a little. “But only because you told me I smell.”

“I meant it in a nice way!”

“You literally said I look like shit!”

He huffs. “Shut up. You can leave your things here. I promise no one will steal them.”

“If they do I’m holding you responsible,” she threatens as she pushes the chair back to stand.

“I’ll rip anyone who dares touch them to shreds,” he deadpans and she hides a grin.

Clarke follows him to behind the counter and into the small kitchen that they have. He tells Harper-- a new hire, part banshee-- that he’ll be right back, to watch the front, and leads her up a narrow staircase to an even narrower landing.

Bellamy doesn’t lock his door since he just reaches over and pushes it open and she’s ready to yell at him for being so careless when she sees his apartment and the words die in her throat.

It’s much larger than hers that’s for sure, with the same yellow lighting as the shop downstairs bathing the walls and some heavy floral curtains covering the one lone window on the western side. He has a loft, and she assumes that that’s where his bedroom is since all that she can see down here is shelves of books and the kitchen, which is bigger than the shop’s one downstairs.

“Bathroom’s over there, towels are in the cabinet by the door,” he says. “I uh, should have some clothes upstairs that you could wear if you don’t want to sleep in your jeans.”

“That sounds great to be honest,” she says, firmly ignoring the fact that he has clothes for her in his closet. She’s not going to think about Bellamy and other women together. She’s _not_.

(And she’s certainly not going to think about Bellamy and _herself_ together either, especially not after she sees his large king sized bed that takes up most of the space up there.)

His bedroom is pretty standard, darker than the rest of the apartment with the bed and a table and a--

“Bellamy Blake, you bougie bitch is that a _mini fridge_?” she asks, delighted.

“I get snacky,” he says dryly, handing her a pair of joggers and an old sweatshirt.

He leads her back down to the shower and stands in the doorway as she gets the towel. “You can take the bed or the couch, up to you. Just let me know which and I’ll make it up for you.”

She suddenly has a vivid image in her head of sleeping in Bellamy’s bed, followed by another of sleeping with _Bellamy_ in his bed and she shakes her head.

“Couch is fine,” she says, feeling the heat on her cheeks. Thankfully he doesn’t notice.

“Okay great. I’ll just set out some pillows and a blanket and head back down. No snooping princess,” he says, firmly. “Trust me, I’ll find out.”

She has no intention of doing so but now that he’s brought it up she finds herself saying, “Oh yeah, and what are you going to do if I do?”

“I’ll revoke your muffin privileges.”

She gasps. “That’s just cruel and unusual punishment.”

Bellamy grins at her from the doorway and oh, there’s that flutter in her chest again.

“Take a shower, Princess, you’re starting to smell pretty rank.”

“You’re the worst,” she sniffs, and then slams the door in his face.

-

Somehow, that becomes a thing.

Clarke would pull an all nighter, or have a long, stressful day at the hospital and Bellamy would invite her up, let her have a bath and then nap on his couch.

Or at least, the intention is to nap.

Usually Clarke just ends up knocking out and doesn’t wake up until seven or eight the next morning, to Bellamy making breakfast for her.

Just for her.

It’s one of the many strange things she’s picked up on now that she’s spending more time with him.

He doesn’t eat, or at least she’s never seen him eat in front of her. His floors are hardwood and yet she can never hear him sneak up on her. And he’s weird about any kind of physical closeness. One time she hugged him after getting her midterm score back and before she even had time to register the temperature of his skin, he pulled back, putting a good five feet of distance between them.

It’s strange.

It could mean that he doesn’t want her to get the wrong idea, that he doesn’t like her like that, except, well.

Clarke already likes him like that.

She wants to wake up to him making her shitty scrambled eggs for her in the morning but amazing chocolate croissants since he seems incapable of making anything that’s not a sweet dish. She wants to be able to lean over and cuddle with him or hold his hand or peck his cheek so hard that it _hurts_ , leaving her to feel an actual, physical ache in her chest.

(She also wants to ride his face until she screams out, but that’s neither here nor there.)

After about a month or so of her staying over, Bellamy gives her key, which is completely unnecessary since he never fucking locks his doors, but she appreciates the gesture nonetheless, her heart doing all sorts of things in her chest.

“I need your help,” she announces as she barges into the apartment. It’s only about 4pm so he’s not quite on shift as yet, instead up in his kitchen preparing batches of baked goods for the evening crowd.

“Hi Princess, how was your day? Mine was great thanks for asking,” he says dryly as he slides a tray of cookies into the oven. That’s another thing that she needs to add to her list, the fact that he seems to never fucking sleep.

“Yeah, yeah, all protocols observed,” she says, waving it off. “I need your help.”

“With what?”

“Baking.”

He hitches an eyebrow. “Baking?”

She nods. “Baking.”

“Why?”

“My friend’s Wells’ birthday is coming up soon and I want to drive out and surprise him with some cupcakes.”

“You know you could just pay me to bake them for you, right.”

“Yeah but,” she huffs, “It’ll be nicer if I made it. Y’know, a heartfelt handmade present.”

“Well I hope this Wells guy has lived long enough since you’re probably gonna kill him with this attempt.”

“You’re such _dick_ ,” she says, slapping his stomach. It’s hard and stupidly toned and she kicks his shin when he smirks.

“Hey, I’m not the one trying to kill my best friend by baking--”

“If you’re not gonna help me,” she says, loudly, “Then I can just go to someone else.”

Bellamy narrows his eyes at her. “Oh I’ll help you alright. Grab an apron, princess. It’s time for you to learn.”

She does as she’s told, tying a dark apron around her waist and when she turns back around, he’s got the ingredients out on the counter.

Things go… okay.

The cupcakes themselves come out edible, if a little burnt, but when it came to frosting and decorating.

Well.

Bellamy it seems is a very _hands on_ kind of teacher.

He crowds her against the counter, his larger hands covering her own after she tried and failed more times than she could count to get the swirl correct. It keeps coming out like blobs and she was getting frustrated.

His hands are cold on hers, and so is his chest pressed against her back and she shivers, swallowing thickly, for more than one reason.

It’s not like she didn’t have her suspicions but she didn’t _know_.

He keeps going on about the proper angle and how it all comes down to the flick of the wrist but she isn’t really listening, her heartbeat thundering in her ears.

When their lesson is over, he backs up and she’s certain that she’s not the only one who’s been affected.

His eyes are dark and blown wide, and her legs feel like jelly.

“Thanks,” she said, swallowing thickly.

“Anytime,” he says, voice deep and coarse and she feels it in her very core.

She doesn’t stay over that night, just takes her messy cupcakes home with her to her shitty apartment and stuffs them in the fridge.

Later, when it’s just her and the moon and her blankets, Clarke thinks of him. His hands on her waist, turning her around so that she’s pinned between him and the counter, that hungry look in his eyes as he tells her how much he’s wanted this, the scrape of his teeth on her neck as he kisses his way down to her chest.

She doesn’t think she’s ever felt this keyed up in her life and not even three orgasms are enough to take the edge off, leaving her shaky, and desperate and impossibly _wet_ as she drifts off into a fitful sleep.

-

March brings the spring rain with it and more people than ever to her little shop.

She’s not averse to it, especially when she keeps getting caught in it in the trips from the hospital to here, causing her clothes to stick to her body and become see through.

She catches Bellamy staring more than once, and she just raises her eyebrows, daring him to do something.

“You know, you’re gonna get a cold if you keep getting soaked like that,” he says, passing over her tea. He’s decidedly not looking at her breasts, which are just ever so slightly peaking  through the vee neck of her scrubs.

“I’ll be fine,” she says, waving off his concern.

Bellamy doesn’t say anymore, just purses his lips and walks off to go deal with another customer.

He still hasn’t told her that he’s a vampire, but the signs are all there.

Clarke’s been throwing a lot of hints at him recently, making dumb jokes and lame puns, and then that one time, bringing in a box of garlic knots to eat right in front of him. She’s never seen him leave a room so fast in her life.

It feels like they’re on the precipice of something. A confession or two. Maybe something more.

On one night the rain is pouring harder than normal, almost storm like, and usually she would stay the night, stay with Bellamy, but she has work in the morning and doesn’t keep her scrubs here.

“I’ll walk you,” he says, automatic, when she tells him around ten that she has to go.

“Do you have an umbrella?” she asks.

“No,” he says, “But I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

Just then, almost as if on cue, thunder crashes outside making her jump.

“I could get an umbrella,” he amends and she tries to hide her smile behind the rim of her mug.

The umbrella that he gets is from Harper, and it’s one of those small, purse sized one, and the two of them have to huddle together to avoid getting soaked.

It doesn’t really work out all that well. She can feel the water droplets sliding down her back, her shirt sticking to her skin.

They’re about halfway there when Clarke’s foot catches on a raised piece of pavement and she pitches forward, about to faceplant into the cold, wet ground.

She wrenches her eyes shut, bracing for impact, but it never comes.

Instead, Bellamy is there, hands around her waist, holding her up, umbrella forgotten at the feet. The rain is pouring and she can feel it steadily soaking her, her hair, her clothes, the coldness seeping down into her very bones.

Bellamy doesn’t help, his body radiating cold and she can feel it along the many points that they’re pressed up against each other. They’re close. Very, very close.

“Um, thanks,” she says, blushing.

“No problem.”

He doesn’t pull back.

Neither does she.

His hands, that were wrapped around her waist, slowly crawl up her back and she lets her lips part.

“Bellamy…” she says, nothing more than a whisper lost in the pounding of the rain around them, but he hears it.

He leans in and kisses her.

Or maybe she leans in and kisses him.

His lips are cold and chapped on hers, but she melts into him anyway, gripping the front of his shirt in her hands as she pulls him even closer.

All she can feel around his Bellamy, his hands on he back, waist, hips, his mouth on her skin, leaving heat searing wherever he touched. She breathes out a moan when he nips at her lips and it just furthers him to do it _again_ to elicit the same reaction.

He only stops when she tilts her head to the side, trying to get him to kiss down her neck, and he pulls back looking absolutely _wrecked_.

“Clarke--” he says, a little it strangled, a little bit cautious.

“I know, Bellamy,” she says, trying to soothe him, “I _know_.”

It’s a like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders, and a different kind of light enters his eyes.

“How long?” he asks, his forehead pressed against hers as he pets her soaking wet hair back.

“A couple weeks now,” she shrugs. “I’ve always had my suspicions--”

He cuts her off with a kiss that takes her by surprise.

“You’re amazing,” he says, soft and she feels her cheeks warm.

“You’re pretty amazing too,” she replies, gently bumping her nose into him. “I kinda have this huge crush on you. It’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, “Probably not as embarrassing as mine.”

She grins as she pulls back, linking their fingers together.

“Well, why don’t we get out of this rain and go tell each other just how embarrassing we’ve been,” she says coyly. “I know this pretty great coffee shop right around the corner.”

His hand is cold in hers but his smile is anything but. “Yeah? Lead the way.”

 


End file.
